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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29281413">in the new year</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adversarial/pseuds/Adversarial'>Adversarial</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>in the new year (swingers au) [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Eddsworld - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst and Humor, Codependence, Drama &amp; Romance, Drinking &amp; Talking, Drunk Sex, Enemies to Lovers, Foursome - M/M/M/M, Gay, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Polyamory, Prosthesis, References to Addiction, Self-cest, Smoking, Swingers, Time Loop, Time Travel Fix-It, Trans Male Character, Unhealthy Relationships, college shenanigans</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 04:48:05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,845</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29281413</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adversarial/pseuds/Adversarial</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"Less flirting, more explaining," older you says. He's started to put your clothes away, quicker and more methodically than you would. The sight of you, twenty years older and a soldier, sorting and balling socks, makes you feel an emotion you didn't know you had. Something between nostalgia and absurdist humor. You sit down on the floor and, after a second, both Tords move to follow suit. </p><p>Older Tord takes a long drag off his cigar and gives you a winsome smile. The sunset light from the window paints him golden.</p><p>"Welcome to the time loop," he says. </p><p>---</p><p>Tom and Tord are college students, sworn enemies, and possibly fucking on the side. Red Leader and his bodyguard are on a sex vacation into the past with complex spatiotemporal consequences that shape the future military state. Double determination and chill?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Future Tom/Future Tord | Red Leader (Eddsworld), Future Tom/Tord (Eddsworld), Tom/Future Tord | Red Leader (Eddsworld), Tom/Tord (Eddsworld)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>in the new year (swingers au) [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2100144</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>38</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. a music in my ears from long long ago and far far away (prologue)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Your name is Tom, and you are extremely fucking good at going with the flow. </p><p>It's a side effect of growing up with Edd, probably. There's only so many times that you can wake up to the world ending before it becomes passé. You've dealt with zombies, aliens, gods, monsters, everything under the sun. You see something outlandish and you laugh (read: drink) it off. You're chill with things. It's a point of pride for you. It's pretty much your whole schtick. </p><p>You remind yourself of this when you come back to your dorm room from the basement, laundry in tow, because there are two men you've never seen before arguing with each other in there. You don't drop your laundry, even when they both pause their bickering to turn and stare at you, because you're just that chill with everything that is happening. What you are doing is shooting a surreptitious glance at your pillow, because despite all of your copious chill you still sleep with a pistol at night and you are calculating in the most relaxed way possible whether you could maybe make a move for it before things have the potential to get significantly less chill. </p><p>The shorter of the pair-- the one with the eyepatch, and the overcoat, and the terrifying scarring down half his face, not that you're scared-- tracks your gaze and laughs. The tracking weirds you out more than the laughing. People don't know how to follow your line of sight. "Is that a gun you've got there," he purrs, and fuck. You'd know that accent anywhere. "Or are you just happy to see me?" </p><p>"Tord," you groan, because that's just your luck, and then when you turn on the other man and see... Yourself, more or less, you grit your teeth. "Right. Cool. Fantastic." </p><p>"Don't you think he looks happy to see me? I think he looks happy to see me," the scarred version of Tord says to the version of you with the terrible sunglasses. He's throwing himself gleefully onto your bed, black boots shedding dirt all over your sheets. You want to deck him already. "Isn't it nice to be back, Thomas?" </p><p>"Ignore him," Glasses says, directly to you. You're glaring daggers. He's unmoved. Unsurprising, given that he's also you. "Where's Tord?"</p><p>"Over here," Tord says, reaching into the pocket of his overcoat and pulling out a cigar right as you say, "fuck if I know." You sneer when Tord smirks. "Read the sign, asshole." </p><p>"What sign?" Tord asks, pulling an innocent face as he lights up right under the NO SMOKING sign that you'd hung for... Him, give or take a few decades. All Tords are bastards. "Didn't you see the eyepatch? I'm half blind, Thomas. Don't you think it's a little rude of you to expect me to read anything?" He blows a perfect smoke ring before giving you a smile so painfully sincere that your next insult dies in your throat. Something shifts in the posture of the man beside him. "Honestly. So inconsiderate." </p><p>"I--" you stammer, as he takes another drag. He's snickering, and the light-up eyes on other-you's visor roll. </p><p>"It really is nice to be here," the older version of Tord continues, reclining in your bed like he owns the place. He turns to older you, who is standing upright at his side, hands clasped behind his back. There's more than one holster on his belt, and between that and the fruit salad on Tord's jacket, you're starting to paint a picture that you're not liking the looks of. "Relax, Thomas, jesus."</p><p>"Yes, sir," he says, tone dead serious. His posture doesn't change at all. "Right away, Red Leader, sir." </p><p>"Oh, fuck you," Tord says, taking another drag on his cigar. Older you's expression remains professionally neutral. "Do we really need to find past me, though? I just think," he says, voice dropping down to a conspiratorial stage-whisper, "that I deserve a little personal time between my two Toms, don't you?" </p><p>"With all due respect, sir," older you replies as you recoil, "I thought you said that you wanted to, quote, 'make that smug little shit get down on his fucking knees and worship my cock,' if you'll pardon the crude language. And," he continues, as Tord gives him a searing look and starts to dig around in your sheets, "if you will, once again, pardon my presumptuousness, I think it'd be pretty fucking difficult to make him worship your dick if he doesn't know you're here." </p><p>With a single smooth motion, Tord's got your pistol in his hand and has clicked the safety off. He's leveled it at the older version of you. There's something viscerally wrong about his arm that you can't really care about, because your pulse is busy trying to hammer its way out of your throat. "Shut up, Tom." </p><p>Older you looks decidedly unconcerned. "Your words, not mine" he says, raising his hands up in surrender. "Your threeway can wait until we've told them what's going on." </p><p>Tord groans, still pointing the gun at your future self. "But I want a threeway <i>now,</i>" he whines, throwing himself dramatically back onto your bed. You're not shaking. You swear to God you're not shaking. "I don't <i>want</i> to deal with past me. He's a dipshit." </p><p>"Funny how some things never change," your future self says, rolling his eyes again. He shucks his overcoat off with a huff and drops himself into your desk chair without ceremony. "Put the gun down, jackass. You're freaking younger me out." </p><p>"... I'm calm," you protest, white-knuckling your laundry basket. "I'm plenty calm." </p><p>"Right," older you says, with the same serious voice that he used with Tord. He pillows his head on his hands, leaning far enough back in the chair that it looks like it might tip over. Just like you. Fucking uncanny. "Of course. Do you know where Tord is, by any chance?" </p><p>The Tord in your bed makes a complaining sound, finally pointing the gun away from your future self. None of the tension leaves your shoulders as he twirls it around his shiny red finger. "I was in my room," he says. He's sulky, head haloed in cigar smoke. "Am in my room, I suppose. Do we really have to get him already? You were so cute when you were younger, Thomas, look at you!" He gestures at you with the gun and gives you another painful smile. Your heart does something stupid and alarmed in your chest. "I miss the lip piercings. Why'd you get rid of those?" </p><p>"... Go get Tord," older you says, ignoring Tord to offer you a sympathetic look. You hesitate. "Don't worry, I'll be fine. He wouldn't <i>actually</i> shoot me." </p><p>"Would too," Tord complains, even as he shoos you out of your room with his cigar hand. You watch a bit of ash fall onto your sheets and wince. "Go on, go get me," he sighs, "the timeline says we won't get to fuck until we've all gotten better acquainted anyways." </p><p>"Alright," you say, feeling anything but. You grope around behind you, not taking your eyes off the pair, until you find the doorknob. "Uh huh. Cool. Yeah."</p><p>You walk out of the room at a perfectly normal speed, laundry still in hand, and go looking for Tord. </p><p>---</p><p>You're standing in the hall, pounding on Tord's door and doing your best to look casual in case anyone else walks by. You're doing a fantastic job of both of these things when Edd sneaks up behind you and makes you jump. </p><p>"Oh! Sorry, Tom," he says brightly, arms full of canvasses and a whole folding easel. There's charcoal on his nose. Even with everything that you're ignoring in your room right now, it makes you smile. "Didn't mean to startle you!" </p><p>"You didn't," you say, and he snorts. </p><p>"Anyways, are you looking for Tord?" he asks. He's trying to shuffle the canvases around a little in his hands. He gets distracted when he notices your laundry basket, now relocated to the floor next to Tord's door, and drops one. You grab it for him. "Ah-- hey, thanks-- is this about the thing with Matt, or about the thing at the frat party?" </p><p>Right. Yeah. You're still mad at Tord for multiple things, per usual. This week's crimes include convincing Matt that you have chlamydia (which, for the fucking record, you don't,) and pantsing you at a frat party. You haven't seen Tord since the party, come to think of it. It's been almost a week. "Uh," you say, with your characteristic sharp wit, "neither, actually. He pulled me into some drama and," you give another vicious rap on his door for emphasis, "we need to talk." </p><p>"Mhmmmm," Edd hums, and you're squinting at him like it'll make whatever he's implying visible. Of course it doesn't work. "Well, looks like he isn't home! Maybe text him about it?" </p><p>You have been knocking for an unusually long time. "Right," you say, feeling a bit of a blush creep up your neck. Stupid of you to keep trying his door, even if the war veteran future version of him said he was home. It's not like you don't have his number. "Thanks." </p><p>"Good luck!" Edd calls, already scampering off with his mountain of paintings. You catch him winking over his shoulder before he reaches the stairwell and relax a little despite yourself.</p><p>You whip out your phone to text Tord right as the door to his room swings open. You cuss. </p><p>"Drama?" Tord asks, giving you a wolfish grin. The lights are off in his room, casting weird shadows over his face. You scowl. "<i>Fascinating.</i> And here I thought you missed me." </p><p>You give him a quick once-over while he leans up against the doorframe, from his bedhead down to his bare feet. He's still wearing the jeans he was in the last time you saw him. It's probably been a while since he's showered. "Not exactly much to miss," you say, and his grin looks a little more forced.</p><p>"You wound me," he says airily. "But you didn't spend five solid minutes knocking on my door just for that, did you?" </p><p>The flush creeps higher. "Jackass," you hiss, and his smile just gets wider. "Did you just-- god, no, we're not getting into this." You jerk your thumb back towards the hall. "My room. Now." </p><p>"Why? Couldn't you just ravish me here?" he says, letting his voice go husky, and you start silently counting backwards from ten. "Oh, don't be like that. Can't you take a joke?" </p><p>God, you hate him. Him and his stupid grey eyes and his dumb bedhead and his fucked-up, sharp little canines and the way he baits you like this, waiting by the door until you're just about to give up on him. "Shut <i>up.</i>" </p><p>"Always so eloquent, Thomas," he says, but when you turn on your heel to ditch, he takes a stumble-step after you and grabs the sleeve of your hoodie. "Wait. What's going on?" </p><p>"I can't do it justice," you mutter, and he must finally get the memo that something is actually wrong because the grin slides off his face. "Just. It feels like an Edd thing. Like, the kind of--" you make a vague, all-encompassing gesture, "<i>thing</i> that would happen to Edd. You know what I'm talking about?" He nods. "Yeah. Like high school." </p><p>Tord takes a beat to consider, then crosses his arms and leans back against the doorway. "So why didn't you get Edd, then?" he asks, just a little too defensive, and you're torn between wanting to shake him and acknowledging that, yeah, he kind of has a point there. "He just left, you know. He's probably better suited to whatever chaos you're trying to drag me into." </p><p>"It's..." You groan, dragging a hand down your face. "I don't have time for this. Tord," you say, swallowing your pride. You clasp your hands together in front of you in supplication. "I will give you <i>literally</i> whatever you want if you will just shut up and come with me, <i>please.</i>" </p><p>"Well, when you beg so convincingly, how could I resist?" he says, slowly brightening as you grab your laundry and he follows you out into the hall. He looks disgustingly smug, like he somehow won the conversation. Which, to be fair, he totally did. You want to throttle him. "I'll put this on your tab, Thomas. How do you feel about maid outfits? Negatively?" You groan. "Perfect. What about cat eats?" </p><p>"Shove it," you say, but there's not much heat to your words. You're thinking about what's waiting for you in your room and how badly you want to not deal with any of it, even as Tord keeps prattling cheerfully on at your side. When you hesitate at your own door, you feel his eyes boring a hole into the side of your face. "I'm telling you now, it's weird as hell."  When you keep hesitating, he motions for you to continue. "Don't say I didn't warn you." </p><p>You pull the door open and wave a skeptical Tord inside. </p><p>---</p><p>"I told you," older you says, glancing up from his watch, and the Tord who has been laying in your bed moans. "Nine minutes, fifty-three seconds. It took me ten fucking minutes to talk you into coming back to my room with me." In the time you were gone, he flipped around the chair so that he's straddling the back of it. "Like pulling teeth. You wanted to fuck me so badly and it was still like pulling fucking teeth to get you back here." </p><p>The older Tord has stripped off his overcoat in the time you've been gone, making himself at home and throwing it onto the floor beside your bed. The older version of you is in the process of rolling up his shirtsleeves. His arms are muscular, corded. You recognize the scarring on his knuckles and self-consciously rub your own. You have no idea where your pistol is. </p><p>"I was such a little shit at that age," older Tord says, staring directly at the Tord you brought in from the hall. There's an edge to his words that older you's digs lacked. Present Tord has gone very still beside you. "God, when was the last time I'd washed that shirt, again?" </p><p>"Alright, lay off him," older you says, and older Tord gives him a look of utmost betrayal even as normal Tord crosses his arms tightly in front of his chest. Older you raises an eyebrow when he does. You can see the glint of a piercing above his visor. "Correct me if I'm wrong, though, but I think you already knew this was coming." </p><p>Tord shifts his weight from one bare foot to the other. In the fading sunlight from your window, he looks ghostly pale. It makes the circles under his eyes look even darker than usual. You wait for a few agonizing moments for him to speak. For once in his life, he doesn't say anything. </p><p>Older you nods thoughtfully like he did, though, and older Tord leers, and normal Tord looks like he wants to dissolve into the floor, and you are good at going with the flow, sure, but you're also still holding your laundry as you frantically catalogue every place in your room where your gun might be in this awkward clusterfuck of a social situation and you're starting to feel the hysteria bubbling up in your chest. </p><p>"Can somebody," you start, stepping so that you're interrupting line of sight between the two Tords and enunciating each of your words carefully, "anybody, <i>please</i> tell me what the hell is going on?" </p><p>"Isn't it obvious, Thomas?" your Tord says from behind you. His voice is strained, but you're a little relieved that he's at least being insufferable instead of silent. "I feel like it should be obvious at this point." </p><p>"Nope," you say flatly. You glare first at older Tord, then at your older self. "Anyone else?" </p><p>Older you sighs and pulls himself out of his chair. "Here," he says, taking the laundry basket from your unwilling hands, "let me get that for you. You'll want to sit down for this explanation." He relocates the laundry over to your dresser and starts opening drawers before you can protest. "Not because it's anything terrible. Tord just talks forever." </p><p>"I resent that," the Tord in your bed says. He's spinning your pistol around on his mechanical finger again. Whatever tension came up when his younger self arrived has officially stopped bothering him, and he's back to smirking at you. "But you should still sit. My lap is open and available, Thomas." Behind you, your Tord bristles. </p><p>"Less flirting, more explaining," older you says. He's started to put your clothes away, quicker and more methodically than you would. The sight of you, twenty years older and a soldier, sorting and balling socks, makes you feel an emotion you didn't know you had. Something between nostalgia and absurdist humor. You sit down on the floor and, after a second, both Tords move to follow suit. </p><p>Older Tord takes a long drag off his cigar and gives you a winsome smile. The sunset light from the window paints him golden.</p><p>"Welcome to the time loop," he says. </p><p>---</p><p>Older you was right. The explanation is long and technical, leaves you glazed over as the last of the daylight slowly makes its way across the floor to your toes. You catch the gist of it well enough: older you and older Tord are time travelers from exactly twenty years in the future, who were also visited by older versions of themselves when they were your age, which led to them becoming the people who later go back in time to keep the cycle on track. Tord is some sort of martial leader, you're his bodyguard. You lose focus sometime around when older Tord is explaining, in excruciating detail, why the physics of spacetime limits the jump to exactly twenty years into the past. You're sure Tord's getting all this. You can ask him for the details later. </p><p>Right now, you're absorbed in staring at the older versions of yourselves. The way that the gap between Tord's two front teeth didn't change, even with half his face scarred to hell. The way older you has the bare edges of laugh lines showing from the sides of his visor. Creepy as it is, you have to admit they both look good in formalwear-- you and Tord both evidently get buff later in life, and you're not above checking out your own ass in your well-cut black slacks as your future self bends over to grab the last shirt out of your laundry basket. </p><p>More than that, though. You watch how older you finishes putting away your clothes and crosses the room so he can sit on older Tord's right side, in the blind spot left by his eyepatch. Older Tord relaxes when he does, not quite touching him but leaning a little in his direction anyways, and the Tord sitting next to you keeps staring at the two of them like they're some kind of complex math problem he's desperate to solve. He's been scooting closer to you over the length of the conversation, subtle enough that it's not super obvious, until he's hovering right at the edge of your personal space. He's chewing on his hoodie strings. Older you is watching him with gentle bemusement. </p><p>"In a twist that should come as no surprise to anyone who has been <i>paying attention</i>," Older Tord continues, looking annoyed when he glances between his younger self and older you, "Einstein was a hack, relativity is a false pretense, and I'm <i>much</i> smarter than he was." As he talks, he crawls over to your older self and climbs into his lap. Older you rolls his digital eyes even as he moves to make his partner more comfortable. You snort as older Tord settles in against his chest, smug and satisfied. </p><p>"Honey, not in front of the kids," older you deapans. You're learning not to take his seriousness too seriously. His Tord takes a long drag off his cigar, twists around, and kisses him. You watch him exhale the smoke through his nose with a sigh, not choking the way you would if Tord did that to you. It's practiced, intimate. Your Tord makes a soft sound like someone just hit him. He's watching at your older selves with so much naked want that it makes you ache.</p><p>"All this to say," older Tord continues, making a sweeping gesture from his new spot in older you's lap, "that you <i>will</i> be seeing a fair amount of us, and that we <i>will</i> be fucking about it." </p><p>"The loop lasts for about six months," older you clarifies. He's starting to inflect his sentences a little more. You're just starting to realize he might have been nervous earlier, when you were first meeting him. You know you would be. "It ends right before the end of your... Our? Junior year."</p><p>"Why does the loop end?" your Tord asks. He's been quiet up until now. His voice is a little rough. "You could just keep coming back indefinitely, couldn't you?" </p><p>Older Tord's face pinches, and older you wraps an arm around his waist. "We don't know," older you says, and he's right back to the professional monotone. It makes you uneasy. "We only know as much about the future of the loop as the older versions of us mentioned when we were your age, and obviously we couldn't ask them why they stopped showing up." </p><p>"It could be a number of things," older Tord says. He looks grim in the bluish twilight."Equipment failure, complexities with the spacetime continuum that I haven't accounted for. The time travel device is remarkably sensitive; we're one power outage away from a total system collapse, and we do live in a very literal war zone." He catches his bodyguard's eye and something unspoken passes between them. It's a reminder of where you stand: you might know more about your situation now than you did an hour ago, but you're still wildly out of your depth. </p><p>"What we do know," older you cuts in, "is that we've got a while before we need to contend with any of that. Think of it like a vacation." </p><p>"A sex vacation," your Tord says, "with my future self, and my side piece, and my side piece's significantly hotter future self?" </p><p>Older Tord scrambles into a more upright position while you swivel to face him. "I'm sorry, your <i>what?</i>" you demand, right as older Tord says, "you little <i>slut!</i>" </p><p>Older you just laughs, long and loud, and your Tord cracks a small smile. Older Tord is grumbling, clearly irritated in spite of still being in his bodyguard's lap. You never thought you'd feel solidarity with any Tord, past or present, but here you are. "Yeah," older you says, making a move like he's wiping a tear away from his LED eye. "Yeah, exactly." </p><p>Older Tord bursts into a tirade of furious profanity, trying to smack older you in the face with his metal hand while younger Tord sits back and snickers. "You're sleeping on the floor tonight, you mongrel," older Tord shouts. Older you is still cracking up, his laughter ringing through the room. "I swear to God, Thomas, don't test me!" </p><p>"Yes, sir," older you jokes, catching the prosthetic right before it hits his cheek and giving the knuckles a quick kiss. "Of <i>course</i>, sir." </p><p>You sneak a look at your Tord, catch the same hungry look on his face as before while he watches his older self flush bright red. The early evening light is nicer to him than the sunset was-- he looks less tired, a little younger. For the first time since sophomore year of high school, you want to reach out your hand and take his. </p><p>You don't, obviously. But you want to.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l2G9nIpWrNg">the wrong steps / would be not to start this exodus.</a><br/>--- </p><p>Hey, folks! This is going to be a bit of an unusual format for me, so I figured I'd explain it up front: there will be one chapter each from the point of view of the four main characters (Future!Tom, Tord, Future!Tord, and Tom, in that order), all written in second person. Chapter five is going to be an intermission before we loop back to Tom's perspective to close out the plot. </p><p>This fic is my new year's resolution project to both start and finish a longfic in under a year (hence the title), so I've got high hopes for it &lt;3 Hope y'all enjoy!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. when i watch the world burn, all i think about is you (Future!Tom)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Mind the tag updates.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Your name is Thomas, and you're maybe a little choked up with nostalgia. </p><p>There's no one else in your old dorm room: your Tord's stuck in your present day doing paperwork, past you is in lecture, and past Tord is holed up in the seventh floor of the library, probably pouring over engineering textbooks and forgetting to eat. Theoretically, you could cry now and nobody would notice, but you've never really been one for dramatics and it's not like you have eyes to cry with anyways. It really doesn't matter. You're just milling around, hands parked firmly in your pockets, taking it all back in. </p><p>The room is larger than you remember it being, especially when it's empty. The walls are an oppressive dark grey that matched your mood back when you lived in them. The NO SMOKING sign that you put up for Tord is still hanging, ash-covered and dull, over your bed. The furniture is all battered wood. Your sheets are that comfortable, stretchy jersey fabric that would feel like old t-shirts if you reached out to touch them. You don't. You examine the desk: there's a blank space where you know your laptop usually goes, stacks of last-second homework, a small electric keyboard that you use for your music composition assignments. You can't see your Walkman anywhere, which means that Tord's already stolen it, but there's plenty of tapes still scattered around anyways. </p><p>You've got a second-story view out the window that made you the envy of all your college friends-- it looks out over the quad, gets a fair amount of light from the southern exposure. This is the one exception you make to your no-touching rule: you go ahead and snap the latch off, pocket it. Past you won't even notice it's gone.</p><p>Outside, you can see people playing frisbee in the grass. The leaves are just starting to change colors. It's nice, is what you're saying. To be back here, to be looking out the same window that you used to. Sentimental. </p><p>The thing about your old room that keeps your hands in your pockets is this: in the space between college and the future where you come back to college, you will spend a lot of time in pain. Some of it will be physical: you've been stabbed, and tased, and shot on more than one occasion, and sometimes you feel your own spine break inside your body as you twist into a monster. Some of it will be emotional, and some of it will come in varied and complex snarls of psychology and physiology and loss and depression and addiction. Some of it will last for years. You wouldn't say you ever get fully used to it-- there's a limit to how long you can ignore a broken bone and you know that limit intimately-- but... You're good at your job. You endure. It's pretty much your whole schtick.</p><p>And, when you don't, when you're stretched to the edges of your endurance and past them, when you're curled up on the ground covering your vital organs, when you gasp and can't get air, or, god forbid, when it's just you alone in the barrack with no distractions from your worst thoughts, this is where you crawl back to. Somewhere quiet and warm, where you're not quite loved but something close to it. Somewhere where there are hands to staunch your bleeding, but not more kindly than you deserve. If the memory had been too perfect, it wouldn't work. </p><p>You don't spend a lot of time lingering on these things-- you're not Tord, and thank fuck for that. You only ever come back here long enough to drag your feet back under you. And, stupid as it is, you're half-convinced that if you reach out to touch your old bedsheets you'll wake up again and something will be hurting <i>bad</i>. </p><p>---</p><p>"We're not dating," past you interrupts, indignant, and he's about to keep denying it when you hit him with the eyebrow raise. No point in lying to your future self. He flops back onto the bed, and your shoulders brush. "Oh, fuck off. How is this dating? I see him, what, twice a month? Three times? He doesn't talk to me unless he wants to call me a bitch or get fucked. How is that dating?" </p><p>You're lying back with him on your twin-sized mattress, shooting the shit. It's sometime around midnight; you'd shown up after a long day at the shooting range with the new recruits and he'd been relaxing after orchestra practice. He's in a hoodie and pajama pants, holding an empty shot glass in his hand. You're holding the rest of the bottle. The dregs are refracting the glow from your visor-- they look acidic, maybe, or radioactive. You would know.</p><p>"By Tord standards, that's practically marriage," you drawl, and he groans. "No, really. Think about it. How often do you see him with other people?" </p><p>"He's got friends," past you mutters. You sit up to pour him another shot, and the room wobbles. "He's got Edd and Matt and whoever all those frat assholes on the lacrosse team are." </p><p>"He's got Edd, Matt, and a large group of terrible acquaintances that he sells injectables to for pocket cash," you amend, and past you pulls himself upright to drink. You're watching his Adam's apple bob with some interest. "If you were ever wondering how he affords all the hentai imports, there's your answer."</p><p>"Son of a bitch," past you sputters, and you give him a second to slot that into his worldview. Tord always got Edd the best birthday gifts. It's a shock that it took you hearing it from your older self to realize. "That makes so much sense." </p><p>"Seriously, though," you say. "Think about it. Remember how that girl in World Music History asked us out? And how, when we told Tord, he left hickies all over our neck?" He squints, and you shrug. "I'm telling you. He got jealous." </p><p>"He was trying to blow our chance with her," past you protests, but you can see the consternation on his face. You remember it getting to you, too. "Because he's a dick. He was being a dick."</p><p>"Yeah," you admit, because it's true. Some things never change. "It's Tord. These aren't exactly mutually exclusive concepts to him."</p><p>"Alright, alright, I get it," he says. This time when he lays back, he props his head up against your leg. You thread your fingers through his hair without thinking about it. "Tell me more about the future, or whatever." </p><p>You hesitate. You spent years after the time loop pissed with your older self for not warning you about the war zone you'd be stepping into. For not explaining Tord's face, your eyes, any of the million things you'd been desperate to know but too self-conscious to ask about. Now, looking at how young you were, you're starting to understand why he at least tried to protect you. </p><p>"... Edd and Matt are there," you finally answer. "You and your <i>boyfriend</i>--" he rolls his eyes-- "move in with them after this year, and they wind up joining Tord's army." You're deliberately skimming over the painful details: Edd's coup, Matt's missing jaw. Past you will learn it all eventually, just. Not yet. "The house burns down after a few years, though, so keep your valuables somewhere easy to grab. Uh, what else." You've started messing with his hair, combing it all in one direction, then back in the other. "You graduate on time. You'll work at a bar for a little while and not get paid enough. Edd gets a cat and his whole webtoon thing really takes off. Matt lands a real, honest-to-god modeling gig and makes more than all of the rest of you combined. Don't let him invest in Bitcoin; it's going to go under pretty quick. Also, I'm pretty sure that he gets turned into a vampire at some point. Don't think too hard about that." You snatch the shot glass from his hand while he's staring up at you open-mouthed. "The alcohol becomes a real problem, by the way." You down the shot. "I'm ten years sober." </p><p>"Ten years sober, huh?" past you says, watching you pour yourself another. He's already a little red, probably from the vodka. "What, was this conversation really enough to knock you off the wagon?"</p><p>You make a so-so hand gesture and down the shot. "Ten years 'sober,'" you repeat, this time with air quotes. "Probably spent about the first two of those actually sober. Tord gets clean-- like, actually clean, not me-clean-- right around when he starts the Army. It's better for everyone that he thinks we are, too." You give your past self a pained smile. "Word to the wise, though: about four years from now, he's going to OD. Edd and Matt are going to hesitate before calling emergency services. Just go ahead and do it. They'll push some Narcan and he'll be alright." </p><p>You watch him file that information away. Years from now, on one of the worst days of his life, it'll be useful. "... Got it," he says.</p><p>"And, just so you're aware," you continue, keeping your tone very serious as you try to lighten the mood, "I <i>will</i> be continuing to steal your vodka for the next six months." </p><p>Your past self's expression goes from stressed to aghast in record time. Mission accomplished. "You'll be <i>what?</i>" </p><p>You give him your best shit-eating grin, finishing off the nearly-empty bottle in one quick swig. "You're paying it forward," you say. You lick your lips and his eyes follow your tongue piercing. "It's like a pension plan, but booze."</p><p>"I don't remember agreeing to this," he bitches, and you chuckle. You nudge him out of your lap so that you can lay down next to him, and there's a moment of dizzy shuffling before you're both lying on your sides, face-to-face. It's weird looking at your past self this closely: you can see his individual eyelashes, the exact curve of his cheekbones. You never really paid attention to the color of your eyes while you had them, but now that you're looking you can make out the narrow difference between sclera and iris. It's in the warmth of the black, the red tones where the white of his eyes should be. It's subtle, captivating. You're maybe a little more drunk than you realized, because you're starting to think you want to stare into his eyes forever. </p><p>You don't notice he's leaned in for a kiss until his lips are already on yours. </p><p>It's brief, and it tastes like Smirnoff. He pulls away again before you can really get into it. "Shit, sorry, I don't," he stammers, and you give him until the count of three to flounder before you grab a fistful of his hoodie and drag him back in.</p><p>He shivers when you do, closing his eyes as you let go of his sweatshirt to grab his ass instead. You growl into his mouth, bite at his lower lip. You'd always wanted to know what it felt like to be on the other end of your snakebites, and the answer is <i>good</i>. He doesn't know what to do with his hands at first-- they go from your shoulders down to your waist, and then back up to a rest behind your neck. </p><p>"Did you," he starts, and you're back to kissing him before he can finish his question. Yes, of course you knew this would happen. Yes, you want him. God, you want him. He gives up on trying to ask. Instead, he shoves you onto your back, knocks his knee against yours as he climbs on top of you. You yank him down by the hips, and he yelps as you grind up against him. </p><p>"Never fucked another top before," you gasp, "except for me, when I was you." You grind up against him again, and this time he ruts back down against you. You shudder. "<i>God,</i> that feels good. "</p><p>"Nnh." He's buried his face in the crook of your neck, letting all his weight rest on you as he scratches his blunt nails down your sides. You shiver. "Why are we such a DILF?"</p><p>"Shut up or I won't get you off," you grouse, and he laughs so hard he starts to wheeze. "Oh my <i>god</i>." </p><p>"Sorry, old man," he snarks, pulling away from your shoulder to grab your wrists and pin them down, "but I don't negotiate with terrorists." </p><p>You roll your eyes at him, trying not to enjoy the view too much. You could shove him off if you wanted, but you don't get the opportunity to have another man on top of you very often and you're relishing the change. "That's a lot of bravado, squirt," you say, wrapping your legs around his waist and arching your back. Immediately, he turns bright red. You give him a smirk. "Think you can back it up?" </p><p>"Always," he mutters, letting go of your hands to fumble with your fly. You make his life as difficult as possible, writhing around under him and reaching up under the elastic of his hoodie to run your calloused palms up his chest. He bucks his hips when you do, and you bark out a laugh. </p><p>"<i>Fuck,</i>" he says, finally getting your zipper down. Your cock is already pitching a tent in your boxers, and he gives it a quick squeeze through the fabric. "Why does it feel--" </p><p>You shove your slacks and underwear halfway down your thighs and his breath catches in his throat. "Jacob's ladder," you answer, letting yourself be smug. You spread your legs further apart to give him the best possible visual. "And yeah," you say, tracing one of the barbells with your fingertip, "it's sensitive." </p><p>"<i>God, that's hot,</i>" your past self says, staring with wide eyes as you take your shaft in your hand and thumb at your piercings. He's sitting on top of you, now, watching as you play with yourself, and the attention is making you hard. You prop yourself up on your elbows, sneaking a quick kiss before leaning back to jack yourself off at a leisurely pace. His breathing is speeding up and it makes your cock throb. "Can I?" </p><p>"'Course," you say, magnanimous as ever. You take his hesitant hand in yours, lace your fingers together, guide him to your cock. "C'mon. Don't be shy." The smooth skin of his palm is a stark contrast to your rough one. Together, you start stroking yourself. "Ohhh, <i>shit.</i>"</p><p>You let your gaze unfocus as you drown in the feeling of it for a while-- the slow, synchronized motions of your hands gradually driving you towards the edge, the rhythm of your hips thrusting into them, the heat of his lips sliding back against yours. When you feel yourself starting to get close, you reach down blindly to grope at him through his pajamas. He breaks the kiss, hisses."C'mere," you insist, and he crawls up your body, uncoordinated and colliding with you as he tries to pull his dick out and keep jacking you off at the same time. He lines himself up with you, breathing fast. He looks painfully hard, already dripping pre. When you take both of your lengths in your hand, he whines. </p><p>"God," he says, rolling his hips, "god, god, god, god, god." You barely bite back a cry as he rubs himself against your piercings. He thrusts down as you push up, dragging as much of his shaft as he can against your piercings, and you feel your throat go dry when he closes his eyes and whines.  "Fuck, <i>close.</i>" </p><p>You pick up the pace and he buries his face in the sheets beside your head when he comes, muffling his shout. You're not far behind him-- you grit your teeth and exhale sharply, jerking the both of you until he's twitching and oversensitive. He narrowly avoids falling right into the mess you've made of your shirt, instead opting to collapse boneless onto the mattress next to you. "<i>Christ,</i>" he says, and you have to agree.</p><p>A couple of minutes pass in relative quiet. The two of you catch your breath, the room gradually spins less and less, you spare a brain cell to be grateful that Tord isn't here. You're sure he'd find a way to be jealous, somehow, even if you're only fucking yourself. You spare another to hope that he's sleeping alright without you. </p><p>"Hey," your past self finally says. He doesn't bother to lift his head from the blankets, and frankly you can't blame him. "Question." </p><p>You half-smile up at the ceiling. You'd almost forgotten about the stickers you'd left up there, but funnily enough you remember this part. A lot of things seem very funny right now. "Shoot." </p><p>"Am I going to regret this?" he asks. You start slowly unbuttoning your shirt. You're not looking forward to explaining the cum stain to Tord. "Like. Having sex with you. Is this going to be weird?" </p><p>"Nah," you say. "Fucking ourselves is, believe it or not, one of the better choices we make in college." </p><p>"Huh," he says. You turn your head just enough to glance at him, and he looks thoughtful. The world keeps tilting a little farther, even when your head stops. "Good to know."</p><p>You snort, finish unbuttoning it. With an effort, you shuck both your shirt and your slacks to the floor. You let yourself fall back into bed. "Your Tord had it right, dude. Sex vacation." </p><p>"Don't tell him that," past you says. He's lifted the covers up, offering you a spot under them. You accept it with immense gratitude, and he turns over to let you spoon him. Even though you knew it was coming, the show of trust makes you feel something dorky and bright in your chest. Maybe you're a little too drunk. "The last thing he needs is another ego stroke." </p><p>"Preaching to the choir," you say, getting comfortable against his back. This was the best idea, you decide. Sex vacations are awesome, actually.  </p><p>"Hey, though," past you says. He sounds far away, like he's whispering to you from the end of a very long tunnel. You're starting to doze, even though you know there's still a little more conversation to have, and that it's important. Past you will just have to understand. "Do we... Get to do this again?" </p><p>"Mhm," you confirm, nuzzling the top of his head. He doesn't shy away, even when you go to drape an arm around him. He smells like your childhood shampoo-- pineapple and sulfates. Like any second now your mom will come and wake you up from the last thirty years of your life for breakfast. "A lot." </p><p>"Oh," he says. After a second, he lets himself lean back against you a little more. He's warm, he smells good, the blankets are familiar around your shoulders and your head is getting fuzzy. You know how all of this ends, and you're already so, so tired, but this is good. You'll take five minutes to enjoy this. Just five minutes, then you'll go back to being brave again. "Cool." </p><p>---</p><p>After that night, you spend too many hours hanging out in your old room. Any time you can get away from your work in the future, you find your way back here: you drink, you help your past self with music theory homework, you lay in your bed and count the cracks in the ceiling. You sweep the floor. You thumb through the comic books Edd bought you in high school: Hawkeye, Deadpool, Legion, Venom, the ones he said you'd like that you never got around to reading. He was right-- you love them. Sometimes Tord comes with you, and the two of you crawl under the covers together until your past self gets home and everything turns ridiculous and animated. You laugh a lot. More than you have in a long while. </p><p>It's fall, and the leaves are the same burnt orange they always were, and it's still so early in the loop. You have time to spend carelessly. </p><p>---</p><p>Back in your time, you're standing expressionless at Tord's side, doing your day job of looking foreboding and holding a big gun. One thing you've known about Tord for years is that he's a man of many faces-- today, he's all business. You watch as he gives speeches, needles, negotiates, sweeps through the base with his trenchcoat fluttering behind him, orders people around, doesn't fidget even though you know he wants to. He's agitated, you can tell. It's something in the set of his jaw.</p><p>In the three-minute downtime between meetings, you go ahead and lock the door while he collapses into his seat. He's messing with the fringe on his shoulder pads incessantly. </p><p>"I want to go back," he says, and Red Leader's gone. He's half-whining, half-pleading, all Tord. You lean your rifle up against the conference table and pull up a seat next to him. "This is ridiculous. <i>Matt</i> could be..." He checks his meeting schedule, carefully printed and organized by Patryck earlier that morning, "... Fuck, meeting with the ambassador to Moldova?"</p><p>"Matt's a terrible diplomat," you offer, propping your feet up on the table. "You know that."</p><p>Tord makes an annoyed sound at you. You're keeping half an eye, metaphorically, on the clock. "You know what I meant. We could delegate. We don't have to be here right now." </p><p>Eyebrow. "We?" </p><p>"Don't make me spell everything out for you," he groans. Here, with a locked door between the two of you and everyone else, he starts to fidget. Keeps checking his watch. You know the feeling. "You're smarter than that, Thomas." </p><p>"Mark the day," you deadpan, "that Red Leader called me smart. But..." You trail off. He gets it. </p><p>"I just want to be back in your room," he says softly, straightening up his coat; your impromptu break is almost done. "Riding you in your old bed." </p><p>You heave yourself back to standing, grab your rifle again. It's a comforting weight in your hands. You're thinking about when the two of you had your old room to yourself, when your past self had been out all of Saturday with Matt and his mom. You'd thought that Tord would want to fuck. You'd even brought lube, just in case. Instead, you'd watched as Tord shucked his boots and most of his uniform and settled himself on the floor, content to just sit in his shirtsleeves and stare quietly out the window. You'd dozed off sitting next to him. It was the best sleep you'd had in years. </p><p>"Of course, sir," you say, as you unlock the door. Tord schools his features into a welcoming expression for the ambassador. Doesn't move a muscle when you slip back behind him, taking your place at his right hand while he plays nice with the foreigners. </p><p>You're stuck with him in the meeting for hours, watching his patience fray. </p><p>---</p><p>Years after this autumn, you're going to stumble back into the war zone where your dorm building now stands to find it charred and leveled. You'll stagger around where you think this room was, two stories too low and knee-high in dry grass and choking on the breath snared in your throat and think, <i>it was good here, for a while.</i> You don't notice when things are good in the moment; it's a bad habit of yours. You're fantastic at keeping your head down and enduring, less fantastic at noticing when something quieter is happening that just needs to be appreciated. Years after this autumn, you'll be standing right here with a rifle slung over your back and wires in your brain and the wound where a new scar will go deep in your leg and think, <i>something important happened here, something good.</i> Something you cherished when it was happening, but not as much as you should have. </p><p>You're older than you were then, and hindsight's twenty-twenty. You know what you're going to do different. This time, you're going to dig your fingernails into every detail. You're going to give it your undivided devotion, the way you'll wish you did in the decades in between. This time, you're going to make up for everything you haven't done wrong yet. </p><p>---</p><p>In the corner of your old room sits Susan, undamaged except for a couple of scratches on her pick guard. Your past self plays her for you, sometimes. Asks you for advice on tapping and odd time signatures that you do your best to give, even though you haven't picked up a bass in over ten years. </p><p>You've forgiven Tord a lot of things. He can deal with you not forgiving all of them.</p><p>---</p><p>"Let me paint you a picture," you mumble, half-awake and still half-drunk. It's the night you'd slept with your past self, much later. His hair is a wreck. His cheek is mashed against your bare chest. You're doodling idle patterns on his bicep with the tip of your finger. He'd finally asked you the important question: <i>why</i>. "Say you're Tord, right. Say you're Tord, and you've got pretty much everything you've ever wanted. You've got power, fame, all the resources to build whatever fuckoff machines you want, a hot piece of ass," you gesture at yourself and younger you snickers, "the works. All of it. You're living the high life."</p><p>He's nodding along. Outside the window, the electric lights are buzzing like cicadas. "But, let's say you've got some regrets." You study your hands in the off-color light, the way the scars on your knuckles don't flush like the rest of you. You can feel your younger self staring up at you, and you give him an awkward smile that you hope is reassuring. Finger-comb through his cowlicks. "Some pretty big ones. Not the kind of thing can be fixed, really. Just, you know, regretted. And you're Tord, so instead of letting things go, you fixate. Power's not enough. Fame's not enough. You're fucking... Obsessed, with fixing things." You feel him nod again. "Won't listen to reason when reason has to drag you back to bed after an all-nighter."</p><p>Years in the future, you know that Tord is laying alone in a four-poster bed, pissy and afraid and not able to sleep at all without you. You're wondering where this era's Tord is. If he's sleeping okay. "So you have a few options, basically unlimited money, and all of the genius you need to create a device that lets you shape the future into whatever you want. Or one that lets you rewrite history, or that makes you superhuman enough that you'll never fuck up again, or that lets you... I don't know, forgive and forget. Make a substitute for time, or something. Heal all the wounds."</p><p>You're back to tracing patterns on past you's skin, feeling his breathing even out. "But again, you're Tord. You're sinking all of your free time into fixing this problem-that-isn't-really-a-problem, which means you're spending all of your free time feeling guilt, which you're absolute shit at feeling so it mostly comes out as rage or sulking. You get kind of..." You makes a vague, wavy gesture, look to your younger self for confirmation that you got your point across.</p><p>"Unmoored," he offers, rolling halfway off of you so that he's facedown against the bedspread. He keeps his legs tangled up in yours. Now, it's your turn to nod.</p><p>"Good word for it, yeah. Unmoored. And what does Tord do when he gets unmoored?"</p><p>You think of Tord again, nineteen and trembling and manic and picking the lock to your room just to fall asleep in your bed while you're gone. Your past self doesn't know about that yet. Still. He knows enough. "... Damn."</p><p>"Right?" you say, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and pulling him back up against you. He rests his forehead on your chest. "All the brilliance in the world, all the ability to change it, and the first and only thing he wants to do is come back here and hide in our old room." Your past self winds an arm around your waist, and you smell his shampoo again, and you think you get it. What Tord was looking for, when he came back here. "That's how the time loop started, at least. And he was right that it stabilized some things between us. Maybe it's alleviating some of his guilt, sort of a..." You yawn. It's nice here, curled up in your old bed with the boy you used to be. You're starting to drift off again, too. "... Preemptive apology, I guess. For the next few decades. Who could say."</p><p>"Not him," past you sighs, before he falls asleep. "God, not him." </p><p>---</p><p>It's raining out when you show back up-- outside the window of your old room, the quad is damp and the sky is greyish-yellow. Younger you is fast asleep, one leg thrown over the covers. You see the outline of his jaw, slack and open in the glow from the window. There's a pile of papers on the floor next to him, the imprint of a spiral notebook still pressed into his cheek. He smells like he's been drinking a little, despite your warnings. You want to be irritated with him for that. Maybe later. </p><p>You keep it quiet when you grab his umbrella and sneak out.</p><p>It's not a long walk to the union, but it's a chilly one. You're trying to stay out of sight for the most part-- you don't want someone to see your holster and call campus police-- but it looks like you're the only dumbass out here in the damp. You shove your hands in your pockets, meander down the walkways. Couldn't hurt to take your time with it. If your Tord is right, this time's Tord shouldn't be arriving for another half hour. </p><p>("It was..." he'd said, when you'd been lacing up your boots to go. Normally, he didn't like you going to the past without him. He's never been good at being left alone. "Important. You being there was important."</p><p>"Shit, what'd I do? Help you bury a body?" you'd joked. Tord looked wistful. You're still getting used to that face on him. "C'mon. Give me a script here." </p><p>"No," he'd said, shoving you towards the lab. Your window of opportunity was brief. His hands stayed on your waist too long, even as he tried to push you into leaving. You got onto the time machine platform and he let go. "That'd ruin it." </p><p>"At least tell me what I'm getting into," you'd protested, and he'd shaken his head.</p><p>"No," he'd said again. You'd kept trying to catch his eye, even as he did something inscrutable with the machine controls. There was a hum of electricity as it flickered to life. "Student union, two AM.  It shouldn't take too long. I'll..." He'd sighed and hit the final switch, still not looking at you. Shame was another face you were still getting used to on him. "Be seeing you soon, Thomas.")</p><p>When you get to the union, hair beaded with spray, you tap out your umbrella and step inside. According to your headset display, you still have another few minutes before Tord shows up. You rehearse a lie in your head for a second before heading over to the 24/7 café. </p><p>"It's cosplay," you say to the barista, before she can even ask about the eyes. "Two black coffees, please. Large." You strain your memory. This was November of your junior year. Exams had been coming up. There'd been a two-week period where you hadn't seen this era's Tord at all. "And a chocolate croissant."</p><p>"Cash, credit, or meal plan?" the barista asks, and you wrack your brain before rattling off your old student ID number. Past you can deal with the account balance. "Aren't you a little old to be a student?" </p><p>"Aren't you a little rude to be a barista?" you shoot back, and she scowls as she hands you your croissant. You give her a dazzling grin. "Thanks. Have a great night." </p><p>When you turn to go, coffees and pastry in hand, you see Tord standing in the union doorway. He's soaked, dressed in an oversized hoodie and basketball shorts and no shoes. He's swaying a little on his feet. He looks absolutely miserable. </p><p>"Hey," you say, and it comes out softer than you expected. "Tord. C'mere." </p><p>He doesn't say anything for a second. Doesn't move out of the doorway, either. He just gives you this long, searching stare as his bangs drip into his face. </p><p>"Is this guy <i>bothering</i> you, Tori?" the barista calls out, and you whip around to glare murder at her. That seems to break whatever spell was on Tord; he storms into the union and right up into your face, yanks you down by your tie into a brutal three-second kiss before giving the barista a smile that's all teeth. </p><p>"Go fuck yourself," he says, with enough artificial good cheer to give you chills, before tugging on the sleeve of your shirt and leading you briskly up the stairs to the second floor. You follow him, careful not to spill the coffee. </p><p>When you're both out of sight of the stairwell, Tord deflates. He slumps down against the wall, lets his eyes fall shut. He's still dripping with rainwater, looks like he should be shivering. His knuckles are turning bluish-purple. After a beat, you set the coffees, croissant, and umbrella down next to him and wander off to find a bathroom. </p><p>By the time you get back, paper towels in tow, he's most of the way done with the croissant. "Don't remember saying you could eat that," you murmur, squatting down next to him. He shoves the rest of it into his mouth, gives you a rueful look that's barely covering panic. "I'm kidding. I got it for you." </p><p>"No sugar in the coffee, Thomas?" he says, after he finishes chewing. You start unwinding paper towels from the roll. "I'm disappointed by your lack of attention to detail." </p><p>"I was planning on it, but you barged in before I could grab any," you reply. He looks thrown. You tear the paper, wad it up in your fist. "What? You take your coffee with three sugars, minimum."</p><p>He's back to staring at you, brow furrowed. He opens his mouth to say something, but freezes when you start patting him dry. He looks like he's about to flinch away for a second and it nearly kills you. Instead, he stays agonizingly still. </p><p>"Would you feel better if I told you that it's fucking gross to put that much sugar in?" you ask, giving him a little bit of a grin as you finish drying his hair. You move to wipe down his cheeks. "Because it is. I don't know how you drink that shit." </p><p>He blinks up at you. "... It's disgusting black, Thomas," he says, slowly. When you finish drying his face and pull away, he makes a quiet noise of complaint. "It's not meant for human consumption without adulteration." </p><p>"Thank you, mister thesaurus," you quip, and he snorts. You grab some more towels, start blotting the fabric of his hoodie. "Now stop looking at me like I killed your dog. It's freaking me out." </p><p>"Serves the freak right," he says, and he smiles despite himself when you laugh. He's shut his eyes again. It looks like he might fall asleep where he's sitting. You drape your jacket over his legs like a blanket just in case he does. You're sure the wet clothes are making the cold worse, but there's not exactly anything you can do about that now. </p><p>It's funny. You have a lot of memories from this time in your life of manic Tord, but none of Tord on the downswing. When he was manic, he'd seek you out. He'd break into your room, show up to your lectures, and, on one deeply traumatic occasion, crawl under the bathroom divider to talk at you while you were taking a shit. When he was depressed, though... You wouldn't notice he was missing for weeks, sometimes. </p><p>"What are you playing at, Tom?" he asks, eyes still closed. </p><p>You shrug, then realize he can't see it. "Don't know what you're talking about," you say, sinking down next to him. Your shoulders are close but not touching. You pick up your coffee, find it still sort of lukewarm. Score.</p><p>Tord curls up under your longcoat, hiding his bare feet under the hem. You don't bother asking why he's out without shoes in the rain. You're pretty sure there isn't a good answer. "You're supposed to be bitchy, not..." He opens his eyes with an obvious effort and gives you a tight-lipped smirk. "Whatever this is." </p><p>"Nice?" you offer, taking another sip of your coffee. </p><p>"That either," he says. He tries his coffee and you snicker when his face screws up in disgust. That seems to calm him down. "More than nice, though. <i>Nice</i> would be offering to sit with me. <i>This</i> is," he says, gesturing at the coffee, the umbrella, the coat, the paper towels, "something else entirely." </p><p>"Actual care and affection?" you deadpan, schooling your expression into something carefully noncommittal while he looks at you with huge eyes. You can't keep the snark going for long; you crack and give him a smile. For a second, you feel two decades younger. "Sorry for liking you, dumbass." </p><p>You watch in realtime as Tord forces on his poker face. It's not exactly the most subtle thing in the world-- when he's older, he'll figure out the gradations of intimacy between brick wall and open wound, but right now he's barely twenty. He pulls your coat tighter against him, finally starting to shiver from the cold. He looks pitiful. You know he'd kill you if he heard you thinking it. "What do you really want, Thomas," he repeats.</p><p>"Why is it so hard to believe that I'd care about you?" you ask, shifting around until your arms are pillowing your head. "Don't answer that. I know you've got a whole list of reasons. They're all stupid." </p><p>"Oh, really?" he drawls, sitting up to glare at you. "So you're saying you <i>care</i> about me, Tom? That you're doing all of this out of the goodness of your own heart? Does it make you feel <i>better,</i> knowing that I have a cheap coffee at the end of a terrible week?" </p><p>He's being obnoxious, and usually this is the part where you get defensive. But his hair is starting to dry-- the left cowlick is standing up again, while the right one's still plastered to his head-- and the annoyance just... Isn't coming. Here's the man who will go on to take over half the world, hiding under your jacket and telling you he's unlovable. </p><p>"Yes," you say, without hesitation. "I care about you, Tord." </p><p>"<i>Why?</i>" Tord demands. His knuckles are pale where they're balled in the fabric of your coat. He's shaking in earnest now. You're seeing the blood under the mortar and it's hard not to laugh. You spent so many years convinced that he never gave a shit about you. Now, it's so obvious that it aches to look at him. </p><p>"Because you're still the same boy who drove me to prom on his shitty dirtbike," you say, looking him right in the eyes. "Because you like cats, even though they hate you. Because you tried to learn Japanese so you could watch anime without subtitles. Because you make Edd happy. Because you're ridiculously smart, even without studying, and because you work so hard to pretend you don't study. Because you can't cook for shit. Because of that one time in high school when you drank 7-Up so fast that it came out your nose. Because your accent is actually really, really cute. Because you're clingy, even when you try to act like you're not. Because you care, so much that it fucking <i>hurts,</i> and I think that you deserve someone in your corner who will care about <i>you</i> that much for once." You're more riled up than you meant to be. It takes an effort to chill out again. "Does that answer your question, or should I keep going?" </p><p>Tord's shaking harder, his gaze dropping to your lips. "Tom," he says.</p><p>"Mm?" You're starting to get worried about the shaking, but you're not going to let him see that. Internally, you're cataloging options: lend him your shirt? grab something from past you's room and bring it back for him? You don't like seeing him cold, especially not this young.  </p><p>"Can you do me a favor?" He's still not meeting your eyes, or what passes for them these days. He's so close to you. You'd expected to feel his body heat, but he's not warm enough for that. </p><p>"Always." You think you can feel him vibrating the air next to you.</p><p>He lets out a long, rattly breath. "Don't make this weird," he says, drawing his knees up to his chest and resting his head on your shoulder. </p><p>You manage, with a considerable effort of will, not to ruffle his hair. "Wouldn't dream of it, sir." </p><p>This is the part of the breakdown you know how to handle. You calm down, force your heart rate down as low as it'll go. Tord's tense at first, like he's waiting for you to reach the end of your patience and shove him off. When you don't, he huddles up closer to you, scooting around awkwardly for a bit as he tries to get comfortable. It's nice. It's really nice. In your head, you start counting down the seconds. </p><p>You make it to twenty-nine before Tord's impatience gets the best of him. "You're a terrible bodyguard, do you know that?" he says with a yawn.  </p><p> "Mhm?" He wriggles again, presses his shoulder up against yours. </p><p>"The worst," he continues. "I mean, you're leaving my older self alone in the future in the middle of the night to be here, aren't you? He's an army leader, Thomas. This is the perfect time for an assassination attempt. Does he really think so little of you abilities as a guard that he feels no difference in his degree of security without you there?" </p><p>He's saying all of this to the crook of your neck. His hands are hidden under your jacket, but it doesn't take a genius to guess that he's picking his cuticles raw. Some things never change. "Guess so." </p><p>"Unbelievable," he sighs. "Horrific. You'll be the death of me, Thomas, do you know that? You should be ashamed of yourself." </p><p>"Indubitably, sir." You gently shove him off your side, stretch out, and sling an arm over his shoulder. That flips the switch: he pauses in his rambling for a second to scramble into your lap, trailing your coat after him. He tucks himself up against your chest. He's probably leaving damp spots on your slacks. You can't seem to care. </p><p>"Traitor," he mumbles, pulling your jacket back up around himself.</p><p>"Mhm." You're still not ruffling his hair, but you're thinking about it.</p><p>"Murderer."</p><p>"Mhm."</p><p>"Treasonist."</p><p>"Pretty sure that's not a word, but point taken."</p><p>"Should be." He's starting to nod off against you.</p><p>"Mm."</p><p>"Tom?" He's got a loose grip on your shirt and it's proving you right: his cuticles are reddish-brown with dried blood.</p><p>"Yeah?" His shaking is starting to calm down. Good sign.</p><p>"Don't leave," he says, so quiet that you almost don't catch it. </p><p>You're thinking of your Tord, now. How he looked guilty when he sent you back here. You're thinking of the years he spent away, building his army and not returning your calls and finally coming back just to tear your life to shreds again. The Tord in your lap must realize that he asked the wrong thing, because he's digging his nails into your chest through your shirt. </p><p>"Never will," you say, voice rough, and he lets out a trembling breath. "Promise." </p><p>Later, you're going to have a crick in your neck from sitting like this. Your coffee will get actually cold and the sky will get too close to dawn-colored for comfort. Later, you'll take him back downstairs, steady him when he misses a step, flip off the barista as you head back out into the rain. You have a vivid mental image of carrying him piggyback to his dorm so he doesn't tear up his feet on the pavement, letting him hold the umbrella over you both. It's not a long way. You can make it, easy, if his pride allows it. You think that's what you're going to do. </p><p>Later, you'll help him strip down to his t-shirt and boxers and herd him into bed. Maybe pick up some of the trash from around his room while you're there. Later, you'll go ahead, literally, to the time you belong to and try to figure out what you'll say to your Tord, now that you know what he's known all along. You've never told him you love him, at least not in as many words. It's too late to start that now. You'll just have to figure out some other way to let him know. </p><p>Later, after Tord has fallen asleep on your chest and pinned you to the bed, you'll probably be up for a while thinking. Because you know how all of this ends: college, and the fight after the time loop ends, the moving in together and Tord eventually leaving. How he'll lose his arm and half his face and what's left of his affection for you. There's a lot of things that you regret. A lot of things coming you're still struggling to accept, too: about Tord, about yourself, about the way you fit together just a little too wrong. It's nothing you have the power to change, and you're okay with that. You're trying to be okay with that. When the time comes and the loop draws to a close, you'll take a deep breath and let the past go. </p><p>Right now, though, you're here. You're sitting on the floor in the student union where you haven't sat in two decades, and you're not telling Tord that you love him, but he's right up against you and you're pretty sure he knows it and that's enough. Lord, but you're grateful for it. Lord, what you would give to stay with him like this forever-- your neck aching and the dawn not all the way here and the man you love sleeping unscarred in your arms. </p><p>You can't fix anything that's coming. You've made your peace with that. You can still try to soften the blow. </p><p>---</p><p>Your name is Thomas, and you are reliving the best few months of your life.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IOX30CHr4JY">cruisin' through the doom days</a><br/>---</p><p>I feel obligated to tell y'all that, for the longest time, I had "[handjob]" written in place of the sex scene and just... Wrote everything else around it. Love writing smut. Would love to actually do it someday. </p><p>Next chapter is going to be Tord's POV!</p><p>(Unrelated to anything here, but I got into my top-choice MPH program this week and I'm hype!!)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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